


Everyone's A Critic

by pasiphile



Series: These Violent Delights Outtakes and Prompts [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: American Psycho, Domestic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-08
Updated: 2014-03-08
Packaged: 2018-01-15 01:58:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1286941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pasiphile/pseuds/pasiphile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>for the prompt: "I would love something about Seb and Moriarty watching American Phyco together and Seb liking the whole 'rich, upper class, stupid people being killed' thing and Jim just cackling at it all, or something..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everyone's A Critic

Jim is switching channels again.

It’s an annoying little habit, although it’s easy to see where it’s coming from: Jim craves stimulation above all, needs it like he needs air. And frankly, most of what’s on telly bores even you, let alone Jim and his million-thoughts-a-minute mind.

But at this time of night it’s bloody annoying. “Can’t you just – settle on one thing, please?”

He gives you a look, rolls his eyes and puts the remote away. “There. Happy now?”

Must have been the  _please_ , he hardly ever complies that quickly normally. “Yeah, thanks.” 

He rolls his eyes and sprawls out on the sofa, eyes lidded. Dangerous mood. You give him space and focus on the screen.

Which suddenly seems eerily familiar. You tilt your head. “Is it me,” you say slowly, “or does that look a lot like our flat?”

Jim blinks. He gives the living room a look – designer furniture, most of it sleek and black or white – and then looks back at the screen, at a flat which does show a lot similarities.

“He doesn’t have art on his wall, though,” he says, with a snort. “It looks  _boring_  like that.”

“Hm, point taken. What is this, anyway?”

He pushes a button. “American Psycho, apparently. Didn’t you read the book a while back?”

“Hmm?”

He snaps his fingers in front of your face. “Seb. Stop drooling at the eye candy and  _answer me_.”

You tear your eyes away from whoever-the-actor-is’ sculpted torso – a bit  _too_ sculpted for your tastes, actually, but still, not a bad-looking bloke – and focus on Jim. “Yeah, I started it. Didn’t finish.”

Jim makes a noise and suddenly flops down, sprawling half over your lap. “I thought it’d be right up your alley. Vicious killing of rich society types?”

“Yeah, but that sort of misses the point the protagonist is a rich society idiot himself.”

“Like you.”

You give him a shove. “Fuck off.”

“Maybe that was it,” he says, eyes closed. “Maybe it hit too close to home, was that it, Seb? Uncomfortably familiar?”

“Hardly. If I ever start monologuing on facial wash you’ve got permission to shoot me on sight.”

“I don’t need permission to shoot you on sight,” Jim says, smiling, eyes still closed.

“Manner of speaking.” You sprawl down a little more comfortably and focus back on the film. It’s more entertaining than the book was, less annoying. And, occasionally, despite all you said, strangely familiar.

Jim spends most of his time dozing on your lap, only occasionally opening one eye to comment on whatever’s happening.

“Sloppy,” he says. “Didn’t cover the entire carpet, he’s going to get blood everywhere.”

Or, whenever the huge portable phones show up, “Good  _lord_ I’m glad the eighties are over.”

And then there’s the occasional “ _amateur_ ,” and “unrealistic,” and “as  _if_.”

“Funny thing is,” you say, musing, while Bateman has his big soulless revelation in the restaurant, “it isn’t even that exaggerated. I’ve  _known_ people like that – well, without the axe-murdering.” You consider that. “As far as I know, at least.”

“Who  _knows_ ,” Jim says, dramatically. He sits up and frowns, irritated, at the screen. “I’m getting tired of this,” he says. He shifts, throws his leg over your thighs and sits on your lap, disrupting your view.

“I was watching that,” you say mildly.

“ _Was_  being the imperative word here. Now, come on, Seb.” He licks your neck. “Distract me.”

You throw your arms around his waist and kiss him, his fingers playing with your hair. “That’s one difference between you and the lovely Patrick, though,” Jim says against your neck.

“What is?”

“You’re not about to freak out over gay sex.”

“The opposite.” You pull him back by the hair. His eyes are glittering.

“Do you like,” he starts.

You point your finger at him. “Don’t.”

“Huey Lewis – ”

“Shut it.”

“-And the news?”

You grab his neck and throw him off the couch. He lands heavily on the floor, cackling. “Going to get out the chainsaw, Seb? The axe?”

“I said – ” You get out of the couch and straddle him, trapping his wrists against the carpet. “Shut up.”

“Make me,” Jim says smugly.

The movie’s still playing in the background, the occasional horror-movie splatter of fake blood, terrified screams.

Neither of you takes notice.


End file.
